


That Thing

by teprometo



Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: Bottoming from the Top, Canon Era, Crossdressing, First Time, Light Dom/sub, M/M, Rimming, Scent Kink
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-03-25
Updated: 2012-03-25
Packaged: 2017-11-02 13:03:59
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,838
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/369263
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/teprometo/pseuds/teprometo
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Arthur cannot imagine Merlin in a dress. This is the problem.</p>
            </blockquote>





	That Thing

**Author's Note:**

> This is the fic I shall ever remember as the one with the sex scene that could not be stopped. I am still completely baffled as to how it got as out of control as it did.
> 
> In any case, I think it's important to mention that this fic is titled arbitrarily based on the Lauryn Hill song that was stuck in my head when I was posting it to LiveJournal.

Arthur can’t stop thinking about it. It creeps into his head during border negotiations and Sunday breakfast with his father. He ponders on it as he lies on the damp ground of the forest, trying to get a few hours’ sleep before the hunt begins again at dawn. He catches himself imagining it as Merlin bends down to pick up Arthur’s clothes off the floor for laundering.

Sometimes it happens when Merlin is standing behind him fastening his armour or fussing over the lacings on his trousers, his body close enough that Arthur can feel his heat.

And, of course, it’s all Merlin’s fault.

It’s been weeks since Arthur caught Merlin sneaking about the castle with that blasted dress. Arthur made a joke of it at the time, but as the days passed, he became increasingly obsessed with just what exactly Merlin _had_ been doing with such a garment. He sincerely doubts it had anything to do with Gaius.

He also doubts Merlin intended to wear it, but that doesn’t stop Arthur imagining the deep purples and reds of the finely-crafted silks draped over the delicate white colour of Merlin’s skin.

He thinks he’s so caught up in this particular image because he can’t quite get it right. Merlin is not a woman, does not have soft hips or breasts or gently curved shoulders and arms. Merlin is rigid and . . . well, _male_ , which is not something Arthur has spent much time considering before now.

How would Merlin look wearing one of Morgana’s gowns? He’s certainly slender, and up until this point, Arthur had thought of him as “skinny.” But now Merlin is slender and wears such ill-fitting clothes that Arthur can’t exactly map out his dimensions.

It hardly seems fair. Merlin sees Arthur naked on a daily basis. If their roles were reversed, Merlin would have no trouble guessing at how Arthur looks in a dress.

Arthur looks bad in a dress. He tried it a couple days ago to see if the experiment would give him any more idea about how Merlin will look. _Would_ look. If he were to wear a dress for some reason. Such as Arthur ordering him to, which Arthur is considering with more and more frequency and more and more seriousness these days.

Of course, it’s utterly inappropriate, and Merlin would be well within his rights to challenge Arthur to a duel for such a demand. But when Arthur imagines how the conversation would play out as he’s falling asleep every night, Merlin always ends up donning the finest dress in Morgana’s collection. Which is currently in Arthur’s wardrobe under lock and key.

Arthur finds himself thinking of it again as he wakes up to Merlin opening the drapes to let in the sun, signalling to Arthur that it’s time to get up.

“Rise and shine,” Merlin says in that eternally chipper way of his.

“Sun’s shining. You’re risen. Think it’s taken care of,” Arthur says, hiding his face under a pillow to gain just a few more moments to consider the shape of Merlin’s pert little arse in the green dress in his wardrobe.

“You’ve got a big day today, your highness,” Merlin says, plucking the pillow from off of Arthur’s face and smiling down at him, eyes crinkled up in a delight Arthur can’t imagine the source of.

“I’ve got nothing planned for today,” Arthur complains.

“Precisely, which is why you must get up and enjoy your day off.”

Merlin busies himself with tidying up the room, bending over to pick up strewn armour, stretching up to dust the corners. His movements aren’t _graceful_ , exactly, but they’re sure. Merlin’s movement has no sense of hesitation in it. If only he were wearing a tighter shirt.

Arthur groans in frustration, which Merlin perceives as hunger.

“Breakfast,” he says, “is already laid out for you.”

“You’re in an awfully good mood today, Merlin.”

Merlin stops fussing about the room and comes to stand at the foot of the bed. Arthur thinks for a moment that he might come bounding up the bed to rest at Arthur’s side like an over-eager child, but Merlin just stands there leaning slightly forward, his biggest grin in place.

He wants something.

“Well, I was thinking,” Merlin says. “Since you’ve got nothing to do today, no place to go, nothing to get dressed up for, I thought you might give me the day off, too.”

“Give you the day off?” Arthur erupts, not because it’s a terribly unreasonable demand, but because this is the timbre of their relationship. “Why should I do a thing like that?”

“Because all of your boots and armour have been polished, I gave you extra ham with breakfast, and I’ll make sure your bath water is the perfect temperature before I go.” Merlin says this as though it is the most convincing argument in the world, and Arthur thinks it might be any other day were he feeling affable.

But as it is, Arthur is feeling preoccupied verging on anxious, and Merlin is the solution to his problems.

“While I appreciate your optimism, Merlin, I’ll require something more from you.”

“Name it,” Merlin says, and Arthur thinks he’ll do everything short of giving Geoffrey of Monmouth a bath if it means Arthur will give him a day off.

“If I were to offer you a whole week off,” Arthur starts, pausing to take in Merlin’s reaction, which is entirely unfettered excitement. “Would you do whatever I asked with no judgment, no change in the way you perform your duties, and absolutely no word of it to anyone?”

“Oh, no. I know you’re lying,” Merlin says. “You’ll hardly make it twelve hours without me.”

Arthur stops to consider this comment. He decides that it’s true, but does not want Merlin to know it.

“Well, I didn’t mean all at once, you idiot,” Arthur says, and Merlin seems pleased enough with this answer. “I mean I’ll consider future requests for free days equalling up to a week.”

“Hmm,” Merlin says, tapping his lip as though he’s thinking, which makes Arthur certain that Merlin already has his answer, and he already knows what it will be. “No. Not anything you ask.”

Arthur rolls his eyes. “I know you’re going to barter with me, Merlin, so just get on with it.”

Merlin grins, and Arthur is privately embarrassed about the swelling feeling it causes in his belly.

“I will do any non-criminal thing you ask of me if you promise me one week of time off every year.”

“Merlin,” Arthur scolds, throwing a pillow, which Merlin ducks, and then another, which Merlin also evades, until Arthur has no more pillows. “You’re a servant. And you’re privileged enough to be the servant of the prince. If you’re not grateful for your position, I can find someone else to fill it.”

Merlin is all smiles and Arthur knows he’s lost.

“No,” Merlin says. “Because you like me.” 

“You’re a terrible servant,” Arthur states matter-of-factly.

“That might be true,” Merlin says, “but you like me anyway.”

Arthur sighs heavily, not wanting to concede a point, but not willing to argue Merlin on this.

“Fine,” he says. “One week a year, but I decide what days you get off.”

Arthur blushes at his choice of words and wishes he hadn’t thrown all of his pillows at Merlin.

“Great!” Merlin beams down at him, seeming utterly thrilled at this turn of events.

Arthur can’t help but shake his head and laugh at what simple pleasure Merlin finds in life.

“All right. You can go. You don’t even have to draw my bath.”

But Merlin does not leave.

“Well, all right, if you really want to draw my bath . . .”

“No, that’s not it,” Merlin says, wiping his hands on his trousers. “I was just curious what it was you wanted me to do.”  

“Later,” Arthur says, because he does not want to sully Merlin’s day off with the prospect of wearing a dress for his prince. Arthur blushes again at the idea, still unsure if he’ll be able to ask it of Merlin, feeling utterly insane for even considering it.

“All right,” Merlin says, heading for the door. He stops near the breakfast table.

“I’ve already given you the day off, Merlin. Don’t think you’re entitled to my breakfast now, too.”

“Oh,” Merlin chuckles, turning around and ruffling his own hair in that semi-embarrassed way of his. “No, I just wanted to ask if you’d be interested in walking up to the bluffs with me today.”

His posture is forced, obviously uncertain and braced for ridicule but attempting confident. Arthur cannot believe his ears.

“It’s your day off,” he says, as though this is all the argument he needs, because it is.

“Right, so you’ll carry all your own gear,” Merlin beams down at him, and Arthur realises he cannot turn down that hopeful face.

So while he cannot understand at all why Merlin wants to spend his one day off in Arthur’s company, he accepts.

“But you still can’t have any of my breakfast.”

***

Merlin is soaking wet but still won’t even take off his shirt. His boots and kerchief are sitting next to him in the sand, and he’s lying on his back with his eyes closed to the sun, which is already descending into the horizon.

Arthur sits beside him, scrutinising the way Merlin’s wet clothes cling to his figure, but it isn’t enough.

“You’ll catch your death if you don’t get out of those wet clothes,” Arthur warns. He himself is wearing only his cape draped over his lap, and he’s only bothering with that much covering because of the odd decisions his body has been making lately about what it finds arousing.

Such as Merlin, lying fully clothed in the sand with the tide lapping at his toes on every swell.

Merlin squints over at Arthur, holding one hand over his face to block out the sun.

“Since when are you a mother hen?”

“Since my servant seems insistent on making himself unfit for duty,” Arthur says, rolling his eyes at Merlin’s grin in response.

“Yeah, well, speaking of duty,” Merlin says, standing up suddenly and kicking at the sand. “I’m off today, so you should stop ordering me around.”

Arthur watches the way Merlin mucks his feet up, grinding his toes in the sand, and shudders at the filth of it. He wants to push Merlin back into the water and scrub the grime from underneath his toenails.

“I’m not ordering. I’m suggesting.”

“Well, then, what do you _suggest_ we eat?”

Arthur notices his own hunger and asks, “You mean you didn’t pack anything?”

“Oh,” Merlin says, a nervous chuckle escaping him. “I meant what do you suggest _you_ eat? I’ve brought myself something.”

“Merlin,” Arthur warns, and before he knows it, Merlin is scampering down the beach with his worn leather satchel, looking over his shoulder and laughing with an invitation to chase that Arthur cannot resist.

Arthur casts his cape aside and scrabbles through the sand to get to his feet, stumbling briefly over Merlin’s boots.

There is something incredibly freeing about running naked down a warm beach, and Arthur does not think he will ever forget this moment, Merlin tossing grins over his shoulder, laughing breathlessly as he tries to keep Arthur from closing the distance between them.

But as nimble and spry as Merlin may be, Arthur overtakes him after only a few brief moments, tackling Merlin to the ground with hearty _oomphs_ from each of them.

Merlin is lying facedown in the sand beneath Arthur, his whole body shaking with delighted laughter. Arthur is tempted to just lie there with his nose buried in Merlin’s still-damp sea-smelling hair, but he pushes off of Merlin anyway and wrests his satchel away.

Sitting back in the sand, Arthur inspects the contents of the bag.

“You were going to eat all this?” Arthur asks.

Merlin sits up and crinkles his eyes, a bashful expression playing on his face.

“No,” he says. “I brought enough for both of us.”

“No, I think this looks like a prince-sized portion,” Arthur says, clutching the bag to his chest.

“Oh, funny, Arthur.”

Arthur hands the satchel to Merlin, who pulls out the contents: two loaves of bread, three apples, and a generous portion of ham and cheese.

Arthur pulls a hunk of bread off the loaf before him and covers it with ham and cheese.

“Oh, this is good,” Arthur says. “Thank you, Merlin.”

Merlin merely smiles at Arthur for a moment, then says, “Actually, I should be thanking you.”

“And why’s that? Besides my being a terribly generous and lenient master, that is.”

“Well, it’s not every day I get to eat ham and cheese,” Merlin says.

Arthur slows his eating, considering Merlin’s words.

“This didn’t come from Gaius’ kitchen?”

“No, of course not,” Merlin says. “I requested a meal for the prince’s outing from the castle kitchen.”

“Is that why you invited me out here?” Arthur asks, because it’s that or ask what Merlin and Gaius _do_ eat, and he’s not sure he wants to know.

“Yeah, pretty much,” Merlin says, but the accompanying grin tells Arthur otherwise.

They eat in silence awhile, and Arthur notes the way Merlin savours his food. He takes very small bites and chews them thoroughly, sighing contentedly when he swallows.

Arthur inhales his own food, as there is no novelty in cheese for him. When he’s finished his allotment of bread, he plucks up an apple and carries it with him as he wades knee-deep into the water. It’s cold, and he feels goosebumps cover his body.

He eats his apple slowly, giving Merlin time to fully enjoy his meal. He wants to look back but doesn’t. When he hits the core, he tries to see how far he can spit the seeds.

“The sun’s beginning to set,” Merlin calls from behind him.

Arthur turns to see Merlin sitting cross-legged in the sand. He wades back over to the beach, and he and Merlin walk together back to their discarded clothing.

“Oh, no,” Merlin says, running up to where his boots lay in the sand.

Or, rather, where a boot lies in the sand.

Merlin sighs and shakes his head, chuckling without mirth and putting his remaining boot on his left foot.

“Well, this will be an interesting walk back, eh?” he says whilst fastening that ridiculous kerchief around his neck.

Arthur puts his own trousers and boots back on and drapes his cape around his shoulders.

“Here,” he says, throwing his shirt at Merlin. It hits him in the face, and Arthur laughs.

“Hey, laundry service isn’t back on yet,” Merlin says, crumpling the shirt in his hands.

“Wrap it around your foot.”

Merlin gives him a quizzical look, but does, in fact, make a makeshift shoe for himself out of the garment. He’s certainly a sight, standing there in his wet clothes with a bright red shirt tied around his foot.

“I’ll get you a new boot once we’re back at the castle,” Arthur says.

A week ago he would not have offered such a thing, blaming Merlin’s own carelessness for the loss of the boot. But today is different, and Arthur does not bother asking why.

Merlin’s smile is genuine and gracious, and it makes Arthur feel somehow dishonest.

“How about two new ones?”

“Oh, please. I’m not your dresser.”

Arthur begins to walk back towards the castle, and Merlin follows.

“What if I throw this one in, too?”

“Then you’ll be back down to one boot.”

“What if I throw yours in?”

“Then you’ll be down to no boots and a black eye.”

“Black’s a nice colour.”

***

Arthur wakes up to find Merlin sprawled across his bed.

Not just across the bed, but across Arthur himself.

“Merlin,” he says evenly, not wanting Merlin to flail too much lest any limbs knock into any delicate bits.

Merlin dives face-first off the bed, landing in a loud heap on the floor. His head peeks up over the side of the bed, and his face is the colour of a radish.

“Prince Arthur.” Merlin sounds surprised to see him, as though his own bed is a ridiculous place for him to be.

“Do I want to hear the explanation?”

Merlin looks down at the floor and scoops something up.

He presents an apple to Arthur in explanation.

Arthur is still utterly perplexed.

“I was leaving this on the bed table for you, and, well, you know how clumsy I am. It fell right onto the floor.” Merlin scrubs the apple with his shirt, which Arthur imagines is dirtier than the floor, and sets it on the bed.

“And instead of walking around,” Arthur says, “you decided to leap across the bed I was sleeping in to retrieve this apple.”

Merlin merely squints and shrugs, his chin resting on Arthur’s bed.

“Get out.”

“Yes, sire,” Merlin says, standing and rushing for the door.

Arthur notices Merlin’s bare feet.

“Wait.” He stops. “Wait, come back here. I have your new boots.”

Merlin turns and, grinning, says, “Did you say ‘boots’? As in, more than one?”

“I did, and if you draw any more attention to it, they will disappear. Like magic. Which is illegal. And I’ll blame you, and you’ll be executed. So shut up, and put them on.”

Arthur climbs out of bed and trudges across the floor to unlock the wardrobe. He furtively runs his hand along the lush fabric of Morgana’s dress before pulling out Merlin’s boots and throwing them at him.

Merlin looks down at them in his hands as though they are some delicate crystal, and Arthur realises that Merlin has probably never had footwear of this calibre before. The thought unsettles him.

“Merlin, I want you to join me for dinner tonight,” Arthur says, plucking up the apple from the bed and taking a bite.

Merlin stops gazing at the boots long enough to throw a quizzical look Arthur’s way. “Sire?”

“Put those on your feet.”

Merlin balances precariously on one foot as he jams the other into the first boot, nearly toppling over. He looks up at Arthur as he puts the second one on.

“I’ll be eating in my chambers tonight, and I’d like you to join me.”

“Is this part of that thing you want me to do?” Merlin asks, and Arthur hasn’t yet considered it.

“Perhaps,” is the only answer he gives. “Bring your appetite.”

***

Arthur may never tire of watching Merlin eat. It’s sort of disgusting in its way, but also entirely not.

Arthur would never admit it to Merlin, but he asked the chefs to prepare a special roast for the occasion, and this show makes it all worthwhile.

Every bite Merlin takes seems like a new joyous adventure. Whether it’s bread or meat or carrots or all three combined, Merlin takes his small bites and moans in pleasure, closing his eyes as though in a silent prayer of thanks.

Of course, the roast is delicious and tender, and the potatoes and carrots are cooked to perfection, and the bread is particularly fresh, but try as he might, Arthur simply cannot find such enjoyment in his food.

“Oh,” Merlin says with his teeth digging into a hunk of bread. “This is fantastic.”

“Good. I’m glad you’re enjoying yourself.”

Merlin looks up suspiciously but soon enough returns to his intensely sensual encounter with his meal.

After several more bites, Merlin seems to be finished. He has a quiet warmth about his posture that envelops Arthur in comfort.

“I wish I could eat more,” Merlin says quietly.

“You can take what’s left back to share with Gaius,” Arthur says without thinking about it. It is quite suddenly the obvious thing to do.

“Whatever it is you’re about to ask me to do must be really, really bad.”

“Nonsense,” Arthur says, not because it isn’t bad, but because he’s not planning on bringing it up tonight.

He desperately wants to see Merlin in that dress. Now, more than ever, his thoughts are consumed with Merlin’s dimensions, the exact tone of his skin, and worse, its texture.

He’s been taking the dress out at odd times, running his fingers across the fabric and trying to imagine what Merlin would feel like beneath it, what the change from silk to skin would be like under Arthur’s fingers. He feels incredibly ridiculous when he does this, for more reasons than he can count, but the sting of shame is not enough to stop him from bringing the garment to his nose and shaking his head at the scent of Morgana because it is all wrong.

He wants it so badly, to watch Merlin slide the dress down over his body, but not badly enough to spoil Merlin’s day. And, gods, when had watching him get dressed become part of the obsession? When had Merlin’s well-being become so important?

These questions would haunt Arthur were he not the Prince of Camelot. But he is, so he decides that he is entitled to whatever strange desires take hold of him, and this helps. And it is this thought that gives him the courage to tell Merlin what he wants.

“I want you to wear a dress,” Arthur says. Not quite as smooth as he’d been hoping for.

Merlin smiles wide and shakes his head. “And what? Put me in the stocks?”

Merlin thinks this is a joke, but now that Arthur has finally come out with it, there is no way he’s backing down.

“No. I merely want you to wear a dress.”

Merlin scrunches up his face in disbelief. “That’s weird, Arthur.”

“You promised no judgment,” Arthur reminds him.

Merlin is temporarily quiet, picking at the remaining bread on his plate.

“You’re serious.”

“I am.”

Merlin ponders this for a moment, and then with a flash of something known only to him, his entire demeanour changes. He’s suddenly perky and cheerful and a bit silly.

“All right, then. Where’s this dress I’m to wear?” he says, standing and clapping his hands together.

Arthur wants it.

But he’s not ready yet. He doesn’t understand it, but he needs _time_ to let this sink in.

“Not today,” he says. “Tomorrow before dinner.”

Merlin shrugs, and Arthur thinks that he’s decided to just go with anything his obviously insane prince says. Probably a wise decision.

“Is that it then?” Merlin asks. “Do you want me to get your bed ready for you?”

Arthur is hit with the image of Merlin draped across his bed, an apple in his hand and a smirk on his face.

“No, take the evening off. Go to the . . . tavern, or something.”

“All right,” Merlin says, gathering up the leftover food and heading for the door.

“Oh,” Arthur says as Merlin shoulders his way through the doorway. “Do bathe before our engagement. I don’t want your filth to muck up Morgana’s nice gown.”

Merlin’s eyes crinkle with his grin.

“That’s my prince,” he says, and then he is gone.

Arthur stalks to the wardrobe and wrenches it open, bunching the green dress up to his nose.

It’s still all wrong.

***

When Merlin arrives in Arthur’s chambers, his hair is still wet.

Arthur has been milling about failing to memorise his royal lineage. This is what librarians are for.

He looks at Merlin and his mouth goes dry.

Merlin is in his usual ill-thought-out garb: those ghastly black trousers, red shirt, and blue kerchief. His boots, Arthur notes, look terribly out of place.

Merlin gives Arthur a crooked smile, and Arthur realises he’s staring.

 _To hell with it,_ he thinks. The point of this entire appointment is staring.

“Where’s the dress?” Merlin asks, and Arthur wants to scold him for his crassness, but he hasn’t himself thought of a good way to lead into the main event, so he holds his tongue and silently thanks Merlin for saving him the awkwardness.

Arthur jerks his head towards the bed where the dress is laid elegantly across the surface.

Merlin quirks a brow at him, and Arthur nearly blushes at the fact that Merlin seems to have _noticed_ how carefully he’s laid out this dress across his _bed_ of all places.

This is all a terrible idea, and Arthur stops caring completely the instant he sees Merlin’s hands smooth over the green silk.

His throat feels tight, and Merlin hasn’t even picked it up yet. He clears it.

“Are you going to fondle the dress or put it on?” he demands.

Merlin’s eyes crinkle with his grin, and he says, “A little of both, I suppose. I’ve never done this before, you know.”

“Oh, please. I caught you wandering about the castle with that dress.”

Merlin’s brow furrows, and then suddenly his whole face slackens, his jaw falling open in what turns out to be dawning realisation.

“So _that’s_ what this is all about! Arthur, I’ve told you, that wasn’t for me.”

“I don’t want to hear it,” Arthur says, and it’s true. “Put it on. Now.”

Merlin shakes his head as though Arthur is crazy, and Arthur doesn’t blame him.

He makes his final predictions, trying to perfectly estimate how the fabric will fall and where it will catch.

Merlin takes off his kerchief, and Arthur realises that Merlin intends to change _right there in front of him._

“Merlin!” he shouts.

“What?” Merlin says, halfway thorough unlacing his tunic.

“Behind the screen?” Arthur jerks his thumb towards the changing screen in the corner.

“Oh,” Merlin says, one of those tiny sheepish smiles playing on his lips. “I’ve never used one of those.”

“Trust me, Merlin, even you can figure out how to stand behind an unmoving object.”

Merlin grins and gathers up the dress, his touch gentle, almost loving, and Arthur wonders if he should have been treating this garment with a bit more care all these weeks.

Merlin shuffles off to the corner and steps behind the screen.

Arthur shifts from foot to foot, completely exhilarated.

Any moment now, he will finally have the information necessary to put this perversion to rest. Then things will go back to how they were, and he will just have to kill Merlin if he ever mentions it again.

The rustling behind the screen stops, and Arthur is hit with a wave of unexpected panic.

“I’m coming out now, so get your best mocking face on, all right?” Merlin says. He thinks this is a joke. Thank the gods.

Arthur gathers himself and stops fidgeting. In his most commanding, regal voice, he says, “On with it.”

Merlin steps out from behind the screen, and Arthur _does_ laugh.

It’s a nervous, helpless gulp of a thing, but it’s a laugh.

Finally, it’s over. Finally. And if Merlin didn’t look absolutely _ridiculous_ in that thing.

“Come here. Let me get a proper look at you.”

Merlin’s smile is all lips and chin and no eyes. He shuffles out into the light, stopping before Arthur. He’s slouching, swaying a bit from side to side, looking off into the corner.

“Stand up straight,” Arthur commands, and Merlin does.

Arthur looks at him.

And looks. And looks.

He doesn’t understand how he could have misestimated so badly.

Merlin has all these sharp angles breaking the flow of the dress.

On Morgana, the silk flows down over her breasts, cinches tight to her narrow waist, and glides delicately over her hips, the fabric smooth and disappearing into nothingness. Occasionally when she moves, he can catch the shape of a thigh or the curve of a knee, but the fabric always seems to be fluid.

On Merlin, nothing fits right. It’s too tight at the shoulders but too baggy at the chest. Half of Merlin’s forearms peek out under the long sleeves, as do half his hairy shins under the hem. There is no flow to the garment. It hangs where it should fit, and it _fits_ where it should hang.

There is no hint of shape between Morgana’s legs, but on Merlin . . . On Merlin, the fabric pulls tight around his penis, and Arthur could not be more thankful that Merlin refuses to look at him, because through all his scrutiny, Arthur cannot stop his eyes lingering on that unseemly bulge, on that one thing that should not be there, and yet unabashedly _is_ there.

Arthur tries to speak, but the words are not forthcoming. He clears his throat.

“Give us a turn,” he says, tacking on one of his half-smiles to try to convince Merlin that this is all a bit of humiliation play.

Merlin turns, and finally Arthur sees something that he _did_ expect.

What on the other side of his body looks ridiculous and obscene on this side looks as natural as breathing, save for the too-short sleeves and hemline.

Merlin’s thin frame perfectly accommodates the dress from this angle. His shoulders are strong but somehow also delicate, the light definition in his toned arms visible through the sleeves making Morgana seem pudgy in comparison. The dress follows the taper of his back down to the perfect, round swell of Merlin’s arse.

Arthur cannot stop gazing at that arse, so he commands Merlin to turn back around.

He does, and Arthur remembers how incredibly awkward this getup looks from the front with the harsh hips and pouchy chest and the swollen groin.

“Take it off. You look ridiculous.”

Merlin visibly relaxes, smiling and grabbing at the hips of the dress, inching the fabric up into his palms.

Arthur wants to yell at Merlin to get behind the screen, really wants to shame him or ridicule him, but his shock at seeing Merlin’s thighs doesn’t allow him to react in time.

By the time he has his voice back, Merlin is stretching his arms above himself to pull the garment over his head, and Arthur can see _everything_. The only sound that escapes him is a throaty whimper.

Merlin’s chest and abdomen are stretched taut, leaving a delicious dip between his pointy hip bones, and Arthur can’t help himself. Everything about Merlin’s body, from his dusty pink nipples to his thin, tense legs, is _begging_ Arthur to look at his groin.

Merlin’s penis looks like all other penises in that it’s sort of fundamentally ugly, but he finds that this doesn’t bother him.

In fact, the slightly greyer colour of Merlin’s cock only serves to make Arthur notice how gorgeously even the tone of the rest of Merlin’s pale skin is. He looks smooth in a way totally unlike how girls are smooth. Merlin looks smooth but not soft. He looks sturdy, and Arthur wants to test his strength.

Merlin finally gets the garment off and takes his time getting it right-side-out and laid out flat on the bed again, infinitely more comfortable naked than he was in the dress.

Arthur is frozen in place watching Merlin move, face hot and palms sweaty.

Merlin is fussing with the sleeves, leaning over the bed, legs stretched up tall, back tense, and arse sticking out.

 _Oh, fuck,_ Arthur thinks as he approaches Merlin from behind. _Oh, fuck, fuck, fuck._

He has to touch him. Just to see if his skin is as smooth as it looks.

***

Arthur places his right hand on the small of Merlin’s back and suddenly senses how sweaty his own palm is. Merlin is perfectly still, muscles taut, and Arthur expects Merlin will hit him and flee any moment now.

But he doesn’t.

Arthur’s hand sits uselessly on Merlin’s skin for a few moments before Arthur presses his other hand to Merlin’s shoulder blade. He feels awkward with his arms stretched out at odd angles, so he moves the hand on Merlin’s lower back up to the other shoulder blade. In the process, the fronts of his legs press against the backs of Merlin’s legs.

It is at this point that Merlin gets out a breathy, “Arthur.”

Arthur isn’t sure what he’s doing. He’s running his hands up and down Merlin’s back now, almost massaging in his attempt to understand the muscles running beneath Merlin’s lovely skin. He _is_ smooth, but not perfectly so. Arthur becomes fond of the feel of Merlin’s ribs under his hands, and soon enough, he finds his fingers pulling down and wrapping around Merlin’s hips.

“Arthur,” Merlin says again, this time with more force behind it. “What are you doing?”

“Shut up,” Arthur says because he doesn’t have an answer. “I’m figuring something out.”

“Oh,” Merlin says, and for a fleeting moment, Arthur thinks he might let him get away with it. “What on earth could my hips help you figure out?”

Arthur is thankful to not have an answer to that question.

If he were at all smart, he would make up some story about measuring him for new trousers or something and leave Merlin to dress, but Arthur is instead fascinated by the different textures of Merlin’s skin here.

He rubs his thumbs up and down along the slightly bumpy skin on the sides of Merlin’s hips and reaches his fingers around to brush over Merlin’s smooth, pronounced hip bones. He passes his fingers over them again and again, completely fascinated with anatomy for the first time in his life.

“Arthur,” Merlin says again, and Arthur realises he’s squeezing Merlin’s hips, pulling them back towards himself.

“Right,” Arthur says, peeling his hands away from Merlin’s hot skin.

He takes a step back, giving Merlin room to make for his clothes, but he doesn’t. In fact, Merlin stays suspiciously still.

“Well, get on with it,” Arthur says, but still Merlin doesn’t move, still standing there with his arse out on display.

Arthur is frustrated. He feels stupid, and he thinks Merlin is stupid, and this whole bloody situation is stupid. In his ire, he shoves at Merlin’s side, pushing him over onto his back and crumpling up the dress, destroying Merlin’s careful work.

Arthur is confused at first. Merlin’s face is red and terrified, and again, he refuses to look at Arthur.

Arthur leans over to smack Merlin around the head a bit in a desperate bid to get him to begin behaving normally. And then he sees it.

The sight of Merlin’s erect penis startles Arthur. He has never seen a hard cock besides his own, and it is _different_ from a flaccid penis. Flaccid penises are for swimming and bathing and changing clothes. Erect penises are for pleasure, and Arthur finds that there is no distinction between the heady feeling of arousal at the sight of his own engorged cock and the sight of Merlin’s.

“I—” Merlin says, and “Listen—” and “Can’t be blamed—” and “ _You’re_ the one—”

But Arthur isn’t listening. Arthur does not particularly care what Merlin is saying, because something hot and insistent and real is surging through Arthur’s limbs, and he can’t stop staring at every inch of Merlin’s skin.

Merlin lies there for several moments, an arm flung over his face, presumably hiding his embarrassment. He is a patchy red all down through his chest, which rises and falls at an alarming rate. His legs are slightly parted, and Arthur runs his eyes up from the left knee to Merlin’s cock, which rests heavily upon his belly, all the way down to Merlin’s right knee. He looks at Merlin’s hips, at his taut abdomen and his tight, pink nipples. Arthur feels himself salivating when he looks at Merlin’s exposed armpits, filled with the impossibly hot desire to bury his nose in the dark hair and become fully intimate with Merlin’s scent.

Arthur stares and stares, heavy and unmoving under the weight of a desire he does not understand until Merlin moves to cover himself, to stand, to leave.

Arthur springs into action, pushing Merlin back down onto the bed, pinning him with his thighs pressing against Merlin’s and his hands around Merlin’s wrists above his head.

Merlin’s face is close now, and still red with humiliation and perhaps something else. His eyes dart about like a cornered rabbit, and Arthur can feel his hot breath on his face. Arthur looks at Merlin’s full, parted lips and wants to kiss him. He desperately wants to climb fully between Merlin’s legs and kiss him until it aches, but he can’t do anything but stare, panting with the intensity of his sudden need.

“Arthur,” Merlin says, and his voice is full of something Arthur wants to consume, wants to incorporate into his very being.

“Merlin,” Arthur says, trying for jovial and ending up somewhere around pathetic.

“What are you doing?”

“What do you think I’m doing?” Arthur says to dodge the burden of verbalising just what exactly is happening here.

“I don’t know,” Merlin says, but Arthur knows he knows. He knows it because Merlin’s eyes have gone dark and his flush is deeper and he is arching his back, pressing his chest up towards Arthur.

Merlin knows, and Arthur lets go of his wrists, grabs his thighs, and shoves him up higher onto the bed until Arthur is kneeling between Merlin’s knees, looking up Merlin’s body to where Merlin is staring back at him, nostrils flaring with the quickness of his breathing.

Arthur wraps his hands around Merlin’s calves, feeling the shape of the muscle leading up to the hollows behind Merlin’s knees. He wants to move his fingers farther up Merlin’s legs, to follow the hair as it thins into the bare flesh of Merlin’s hips, and then in.

Arthur wants to touch Merlin’s cock, which shows no signs of losing interest. Arthur knows that when he touches it—and he _will_ touch it—it will be heavy and smooth and warm and completely delicious. And delicious is the right word, because Arthur wants nothing more than to wrap his lips around that cock and taste it, taste something no one else has ever tasted, taste _Merlin_ in a way no one else can. The thought of anyone else seeing Merlin like this, hot and aroused and exposed, makes Arthur snarl with rage.

As he runs his nose along Merlin’s inner thigh, he imagines the stable boy and Guinevere and Leon and Lancelot and Morgana and even his own father doing this same thing to Merlin, and he can’t rein in the flare of jealousy that erupts.

He has to ask, even though he doesn’t want to know. He needs to know if someone else has been here before, if someone else managed to figure out before Arthur did that Merlin is something to be tasted.

“Have you—” Arthur starts, face buried in Merlin’s hip. He is distracted by the smell of Merlin, forgets what he’s saying entirely, and focuses on drowning in this scent. He pulls Merlin’s leg over his shoulder and nuzzles the crease between thigh and pelvis, dragging his tongue across the crevice until it drives him mad, then placing sloppy kisses all along the line of Merlin’s pubic hair.

“Have you done this before?” Arthur finally gets out, staring up at Merlin’s chin.

Merlin lifts up onto his elbows and looks down at Arthur, who is filled with a deep affection at the sight of Merlin’s furrowed brow.

“No,” he says, and Arthur believes him. Arthur knows it’s true because of the way Merlin’s hands are shaking, the wild hitching of his breath, and that look in his eyes that says he doesn’t know what to expect.

Arthur believes, and he wants to do this for Merlin. He wants to cover every last bit of Merlin’s skin with saliva, but right now Merlin’s cock is all Arthur can think about.

He boldly wraps his hand around Merlin’s prick, and Merlin’s gasp is the only encouragement he needs to press his nose to Merlin’s scrotum and drag it up along the underside of Merlin’s penis.

“Arthur—”

“Shut up and let me do this,” Arthur heaves, and he _does_ this.

He wraps his lips around the head of Merlin’s cock and lets Merlin’s taste overcome him. It’s not a taste that Arthur can really describe. He has nothing to relate it to. In time, as he moves his mouth over Merlin’s length, he decides it tastes like Merlin, that all things he may put in his mouth in the future with this taste will taste _like Merlin_.

Merlin’s hands are fisting in Morgana’s dress and his breaths escape him raggedly. Arthur’s left hand clutches at Merlin’s hip and his right roams up and down Merlin’s abdomen.

Merlin’s cock has started to taste like the blood beneath the skin, which worries Arthur. He thinks he may be sucking too hard, but he can’t stop himself. He can’t stop because Merlin has started whimpering, high-pitched grunts of ecstasy urging Arthur on.

He wants more. He wants to fit Merlin’s entire body into his mouth, to swallow all of him. He needs it.

He pulls off of Merlin’s prick to take off his own shirt. He is too warm. He looks down at Merlin and prays to the gods that he never forgets this. Merlin’s left hand is fisted in his own hair and his right is stroking his cock. He’s biting his lower lip as he gazes at Arthur, and Arthur barely contains the roar that is trying to claw its way out of his throat to make his unfathomable desire be known.

“Merlin,” he says, and then suddenly he has slapped Merlin’s hand away from his cock, has climbed between his legs, has lowered his face to one of Merlin’s hard nipples. He scrapes his teeth all over Merlin’s pink chest. He kisses the crooks of Merlin’s elbows and bites his fingertips. He brushes his nose over Merlin’s and nearly kisses his mouth, nearly does it, but stops. He wants to save it. He wants to _want_ it.

Merlin’s frustration comes out with a groan every time he tries to catch Arthur’s lips and Arthur won’t let him.

Arthur rams his hips against Merlin’s as he pushes Merlin’s hair back from his forehead with both hands, resting on his forearms and running his mouth back and forth over the curve of his skull.

He kisses and tongues every bit of Merlin’s skin he can find from his big ears to his hairy feet.

As Arthur runs his nose over Merlin’s knees, he says unthinkingly, “What are these ridiculous knees?”

And they are ridiculous. They’re these knobby, bony little things, and Merlin scoffs as Arthur bites his thigh.

Wanting more skin to touch, he flips Merlin onto his belly.

He catches sight of Merlin’s arse and temporarily loses his sense of hearing.

Suddenly things become very clear, and Arthur’s hands are spreading Merlin’s arse, and Merlin says, “Aah,” which flows seamlessly into, “Arthur!” as Arthur presses a kiss to Merlin’s hole.

It’s not something he planned on doing or something he’s ever thought about before, but all of that is irrelevant as he pulls Merlin up onto his knees and Merlin presses his arse back against Arthur’s face, legs shaking and voice trembling around an incessant moan.

If his cock tastes like Merlin, then his arsehole tastes like _Merlin!_ , a dark, personal, irreversible kind of taste that has Arthur breathless and on the verge of fainting.

Arthur licks and sucks at Merlin’s anus, soaking up every whimper. He licks a long stripe from Merlin’s scrotum all the way up to the small of Merlin’s back and back down. He pulls back to look at his handiwork and goes dizzy from the sight of his saliva dripping down Merlin’s thigh.

He is painfully hard and wants nothing more than to rub his cock in the cleft of Merlin’s arse and smear his come into Merlin’s skin. He is suddenly hit with the image of his own semen dripping from Merlin’s arsehole and grits out a throaty, “Fuck.”

“What?” Merlin says, an edge of what sounds like frustration in his voice.

“I want to—” Arthur says, and “Can I—” and “Fuck” again.

“What do you want?” Merlin says. “Arthur.”

He flips over and sits up, looking at Arthur, concerned.

Arthur looks at his eyes, his cheekbones, and his lips.

His lips.

Arthur shoves Merlin back on the bed and nearly rips his own trousers in getting them off.

Merlin gasps as Arthur settles between his hips, their stiff cocks brushing against each other.

“I want to fuck you,”Arthur says into Merlin’s mouth. “I want to _fuck_ you.”

Merlin stills his lips with suction, pulling Arthur’s mouth more firmly against his own. Arthur pulls right back, and they are kissing, and for a few long moments, Arthur forgets about sex entirely.

Merlin’s mouth is too good. Arthur sucks on his lips, his tongue, slides their mouths together, gets saliva everywhere. It’s the perfect kind of messy, and their lips will be chapped for days, but Arthur wouldn’t want this kiss to be any different.

Merlin wraps his arms around Arthur’s shoulders, squeezes his hips between his thighs, and Arthur suddenly remembers the rest of Merlin’s body. He gently hitches his hips, brushing his prick against Merlin’s.

Merlin’s jaw falls slack with a moan, and Arthur does it again, more confidently this time.

Merlin opens his eyes and looks up at Arthur. Arthur swears there’s a little bit of gold in them. He rams his hips up against Merlin’s and watches the way he grimaces. He reaches down between them and runs his fingers behind Merlin’s scrotum, pressing against Merlin’s still-wet hole.

Merlin whimpers, which makes Arthur push his finger inside Merlin. Merlin groans and presses a hand to Arthur’s chest.

“Hold on,” Merlin says, “Hold on, hold on, hold on,” as though trying to still his own frantic mind enough to think clearly.

Arthur watches Merlin think as he concentrates very intently on removing his finger from Merlin when what he wants to do is drive it deeper. He sits back on his calves and sees Merlin nod before whispering, “Okay.”

Merlin rolls out of the bed and goes to the cabinet across the room, his prick bobbing awkwardly as he moves.

He digs through a few drawers before pulling out a glass vial of what appears to be the salve Arthur applies to his lips and knuckles to keep them from cracking in the cold, dry months.

Merlin approaches the bed with vial in hand and suddenly looks hesitant. Arthur thinks the momentary lack of skin contact has sobered Merlin’s frantic arousal, and now he seems downright apprehensive.

Arthur sits up and scoots to the edge of the bed where Merlin is standing. He places his hands on Merlin’s hips and looks up at his face. His brow is furrowed, and he’s not looking at Arthur.

Arthur pulls Merlin in, wraps his arms around his waist, and buries his face into Merlin’s abdomen. He nuzzles across the skin there, kissing his hip bones and pressing his palms flat against Merlin’s back. He feels Merlin relax a bit.

Arthur pulls back and reaches for Merlin’s face. Merlin leans down to accommodate the gesture, and Arthur pulls him into a kiss.

It’s small and shy and nothing like the kiss of a few minutes ago. Merlin is leaning on his balled-up fists, and Arthur has one hand on Merlin’s cheek and the other buried in his hair. He presses light kisses to Merlin’s mouth and chin. Merlin looks down at him through long lashes, and Arthur feels a stillness in himself.

He pulls himself across the bed and lays back. Merlin climbs on top of him, straddling his hips and laying down fully across Arthur’s front.

Merlin’s breath tickles Arthur’s neck, his chest moving so slowly and evenly that Arthur thinks he may have fallen asleep. He runs his hands up and down Merlin’s back and smells the line where his hair meets the skin behind his ear.

They are still for a long moment, sharing a profound silence that shatters every conception of “terrified” Arthur has ever had. He is terrified because Merlin is a servant— _his_ servant, is a man, is bony and warm and on top of him. He is terrified of the overwhelming affection he feels for this person breathing wetly against his ear. He is terrified that at any moment, he might burst into tears or start babbling sentiment or try to swallow every inch of Merlin’s being because he _can’t_. He _can’t_ get enough. Ever. He can’t let Merlin remove himself from Arthur’s grasp, because at any moment, he could vanish. If Arthur lets go, Merlin may simply disappear, and Arthur _can’t_.

Slowly but without trepidation, Merlin trails kisses along Arthur’s jaw. It doesn’t take much to get Arthur panting, groaning at every well-placed tug of Merlin’s teeth.

Arthur is so distracted by Merlin’s tongue dragging across his clavicle that it takes him a minute to realise that Merlin has one hand behind himself. Arthur can see the muscles in his forearm working, and he feels dizzy at the thought of what Merlin is doing with his fingers, fucking himself, stretching himself for Arthur’s prick.

“Can you—” Merlin trails off, whether due to distraction or embarrassment, Arthur isn’t sure.

“Can I what?” Arthur asks.

“Can you help?”

Arthur snakes his hand down between them, moving behind Merlin’s scrotum to where his hand is moving. He’s not sure how to help exactly, but he decides to try to slip another finger in alongside Merlin’s.

“Hold still a minute,” Arthur says, having trouble slipping in next to Merlin’s fingers. Once Merlin has stopped moving, Arthur tries again, but still can’t quite get in.

“Here,”Merlin says, leaning back and grabbing the vial of salve with his free hand. “Put this on.”

Arthur slathers his fingers and tries again, this time managing to get his index finger into Merlin’s arse.

Merlin hisses as their knuckles rub together. There is something surreal about this experience, about feeling Merlin inside himself. He thinks the term “meta-Merlin” and nearly laughs.

“One more,” Merlin whispers, stilling his hand. Arthur works at Merlin’s hole with his middle finger for a moment before sliding it in with the others.

Merlin grunts when they move again. He seems uncomfortable but unyielding in his commitment to do this. Arthur concentrates on the feel of Merlin’s fingers moving beside his own, on how Merlin’s arse slowly becomes easier to move in.

It isn’t until Merlin says, “Now, Arthur. Just do it now,” that Arthur remembers why they’re partaking in this ritual. He feels like he might pass out before he can even withdraw his fingers from Merlin.

“How do you want to—” Arthur says, unsure what he should call it. He’s not sure there’s an appropriate name for what they’re about to do.

“Here,” Merlin says. “I think . . . for now, at least.”

Arthur removes his fingers from Merlin and reaches for the salve again, scooping it into his palm. He reaches down to coat his prick and knows he won’t last long, not in the tight heat of Merlin’s body. He wishes he’d wanked earlier, but it’s too late for that now. He only hopes he can make this worthwhile for Merlin.

He squeezes his cock too hard. Not hard enough to make it soften, but hard enough to confuse his nerves. He hopes it will help.

He looks at Merlin’s face. His eyes are wide, unguarded. Arthur’s hand is pushed off his prick, replaced by Merlin’s. Arthur looks down, doesn’t blink, watches intently as Merlin lowers himself and positions Arthur’s cock at his entrance.

Merlin takes a deep, unsteady breath and lowers himself slowly onto Arthur’s cock.

It’s nothing like Arthur imagined it would be. Merlin is wincing and panting in a way that makes Arthur want to push him off and bathe for being sick enough to want to hurt someone like this. But Merlin just keeps whispering, “Shut up, shut up, shut up,” so Arthur shuts up. “Let me do this,” he says, echoing Arthur’s words from before.

Arthur’s arms lie uselessly at his sides. He’s too nervous to touch Merlin, who seems fiercely concentrated and surprisingly fragile.

Arthur thinks about Merlin’s face and his breathing because if he thinks about his cock or Merlin’s arse, it’s all over for him. If he consciously acknowledges the fucking miracle of this feeling, he won’t be able to stop if Merlin asks him to, so he concentrates on Merlin until he’s settled all the way down, his balls nestled in against Arthur’s abdomen.

“Are you—” Arthur croaks, and then thinks better of it at the intense look on Merlin’s face.

“It’s fine. Just give me . . .” he trails off as he shifts a little bit from side to side.

“Oh, god,” Arthur says because he can’t help it. The feel of Merlin is exponentially better than he’d imagined. He runs his hands up hips and ribs and sinks fingers into black hair, pulling Merlin’s face down to his own and capturing his mouth in a kiss.

Merlin’s lips are still soft and perfect. Arthur’s breath catches in his chest at the feel of Merlin’s full lower lip against his tongue. Merlin’s heavy breathing makes Arthur hold the back of his head tighter, push his tongue more forcefully past Merlin’s teeth, lick along his mouth, suck on his lips, groan into him. Arthur’s entire being is encompassed in Merlin, the taste of his mouth, the smell of his sweat, the sound of his moans, and the feel of him hot and tight around Arthur.

Merlin slowly pulls his hips up and away from Arthur’s body and then lowers again. Arthur can’t contain the loud moan that rips through him. Merlin does it again. And again.

“Do you—” Arthur starts, but then he opens his eyes. He opens his eyes and he sees Merlin’s furrowed brow and parted lips and notices how he’s holding his breath.

“You like this,” Arthur amends, because it’s not a question. Not anymore. Not with the way Merlin buries his head in Arthur’s neck and moves more confidently, rising and falling and finally, finally, exhaling a low moan of his very own.

“Tell me you like it,” Arthur says because he can’t see Merlin’s face and he wants to hear him say it.

Merlin is silent. Arthur pulls his head up by his hair and looks up into Merlin’s face.

“Tell me,” he says, and suddenly Merlin is all smirking and cocked eyebrows and mischief.

“I like it,” he says simply, pursing his lips in a way that makes Arthur absolutely _need_ to kiss him, to drag his teeth across Merlin’s lips and bite his tongue.

“How much do you like it?” Arthur demands.

Merlin licks a trail from the corner of Arthur’s mouth to his ear, and Arthur is covered in goosebumps.

Merlin sits up and rests his hands on Arthur’s chest, leaning on him for support as he pulls away from Arthur and lowers again.

“I like it,” Merlin says, “a lot.”

“More,” Arthur says. “Tell me more.”

He watches Merlin rise and fall on top of him, watches the way his abdominal muscles contract, watches his cock brush over his belly as he moves. Merlin is so fucking gorgeous, it makes Arthur lose his breath.

“I like fucking you,” he says. “I like the feel of your cock in me. I like the look of you under me.”

Arthur groans and grasps at Merlin’s hips, needing to touch him.

“Mmm,” Merlin says, closing his eyes. “I want to see you on top of me.”

“Fuck,” Arthur says, amazed he hasn’t come yet. “Yes. On your back.”

Merlin bites his lip as he pulls off of Arthur. He lays on his back, and Arthur climbs between his legs. He squeezes his cock again, harder this time, willing himself not to come and spoil this for Merlin.

He runs a hand up and down Merlin’s right thigh, savouring the feeling of his coarse leg hair. Somehow, even more than his cock, his body hair has Arthur’s head swimming in just how male Merlin is. Merlin bends his knees and cups his scrotum, giving Arthur access to his deliciously hot hole. Arthur moans as he presses the tip of his penis against Merlin’s anus, lost in the pleasure that is entering Merlin’s body again.

Not more than a couple inches in, Merlin’s eyes squint shut tight and he lets out an intense shout. Arthur is concerned he’s done something wrong until Merlin grabs his arm and says, “Again.”

Arthur pulls back an inch and pushes in again. Merlin moans, and Arthur does it again and again, watching as Merlin sinks his fingers into his own hair. He’s whimpering and panting and wrapping his legs around Arthur’s waist. Arthur lowers onto his elbows on either side of Merlin’s head and bites his right ear.

“Yes, come on,” Arthur grunts. “Be my whore.”

Merlin chuckles between gasps.

“If you want me to be your whore,” he says, “you’ll have to start paying me better.”

And Arthur would. He would pay anything, risk everything, for Merlin to always be like this: red-lipped and heavy-lidded and breathless _for him. His. Arthur’s_.

He would pay anything, but instead, he says, “Then do it because you love it. Fuck me because you love it.”

“Uh-huh,” Merlin says, and he does love it. Arthur can tell from the way Merlin’s fingers grasp at Morgana’s dress, the way his mouth hangs open, and the way he keens for it.

“Fuck me,” Merlin says, and when Arthur groans long and low in Merlin’s ear, he says it on repeat. “Fuck me, fuck me, fuck me.”

“Fuck,” Arthur says, and “Always.”

“Touch me,” Merlin says, and Arthur reaches down to grasp at Merlin’s hard cock.

He pushes his prick in and out, fisting Merlin’s cock, spitting filth and affection into Merlin’s ear, and Merlin just keeps moaning, keeps breathing, keeps licking at the side of Arthur’s face, and Arthur thinks he might cry.

“Merlin,” he says. “Fuck, Merlin. Fuck.”

“Come on,” Merlin says. “Come on.”

Arthur thinks he knows, but he asks anyway. “What do you want?”

“I want,” Merlin says between moans, “you to come for me.”

“Where?” is the obvious question, and Merlin doesn’t seem to have an answer.

“Everywhere.”

Arthur laughs at the mental image of his cock erupting enough semen to cover the room.

Merlin chuckles, too, and Arthur kisses the tip of his nose.

“You have to pick somewhere, love.” It comes out before Arthur can stop it, this bubbling over of affection, this insane desire to just hold Merlin for a year.

“Mmm, as close to everywhere as you can manage, then,” he says. “On me. On my cock. On my arse. I want it.”

“Can’t wait to suck that cock again,” Arthur says, and it’s true. As his own orgasm approaches, he remembers the taste of Merlin. He lets go of his cock and lays down fully atop Merlin, buries his face in an armpit, tastes him there, fills his face with the scent and never wants to leave.

“Fuck, fuck, fuck,” Arthur groans. “Love the way you smell.”

He’s going to come. Now.

He pulls back and out of Merlin, palming himself.

He watches Merlin’s face as he strokes his cock until he comes. Comes against Merlin’s hole, comes across his cock and balls, comes into the crease of his thigh. His orgasm feels like it lasts forever as he rubs his prick against Merlin’s pelvis.

As he comes down, he pulls away and flops onto his back, slapping at Merlin’s hip.

“Get on my face,” he says, and Merlin complies, one knee on either side of Arthur’s shoulders, his hands braced against the headboard.

He looks up at Merlin and feels utterly submissive and delicious. He wants to be owned by Merlin, wants Merlin to shove his cock past Arthur’s lips and down his throat.

Merlin’s nostrils are flared and his eyes are full of a desire that borders on dangerous.

“Put your cock in my mouth,” Arthur says, and Merlin grabs his own prick and angles it toward’s Arthur’s face, pushes it past Arthur’s lips and in. Arthur tastes his own come mingling with the taste of Merlin.

Arthur loves this cock. Loves the feel of it against his tongue. Merlin thrusts shallowly into Arthur’s mouth as Arthur sucks and moves his tongue against the underside of his prick.

“I’m gonna come for you,” Merlin says, which makes Arthur groan around Merlin’s cock.

“Where do you want—” Merlin starts, a sly grin on his face. “Oh, wait. Your mouth’s full. I guess it’s up to me.”

Merlin like this, driving his prick in and out of Arthur, cocky and in control, is sexy in a way Arthur can’t even comprehend. All he knows is that he wants Merlin’s orgasm more than he’s ever wanted his own. He wants to be taken and filled and covered with this delicious creature that is his manservant, is his friend and now his lover. He wants it.

Arthur grasps at Merlin’s thighs, and Merlin pulls his cock out of Arthur’s mouth.

“Gonna come all over you.”

“Do it,” Arthur says, watching Merlin stroke his prick.

Merlin sits on Arthur’s chest and leans back onto his left hand, which lands on the rumpled green dress. Arthur knows this because the next moment, his mouth is full of fabric. He can feel Merlin’s fingers in his mouth through the cloth of Morgana’s dress, and this is exactly perfect, exactly how it should be.

Merlin is groaning, gritting out a long string of phrases that Arthur tries to commit to memory.

“You like that?” Merlin spits. “You like having your mouth full?”

Merlin shakes Arthur’s head by the jaw, and if Arthur could speak, he would say, “Yes, I fucking love it.”

He loves this side of Merlin, this raw, powerful, aggressive streak that has been lying in wait. He loves being dominated by Merlin.

“Looks like you’re my whore now,” Merlin says, and Arthur could not agree more. He is Merlin’s. He wants to be Merlin’s to do with as he pleases.

“Oh, god,” Merlin whimpers, and in this moment, Arthur remembers that Merlin is still this silly, generous, kindhearted, skinny kid, and he wants him even more.

When Merlin looks down at Arthur’s face, he seems almost scared. He pulls the dress out of Arthur’s mouth and replaces it with just his fingers, which Arthur sucks and licks greedily.

“I’m gonna come,” Merlin says as though asking for permission.

“Come on, love,” Arthur says around Merlin’s fingers, and he does.

Merlin comes all over Arthur’s neck and chin, his mouth open and his eyes squinted shut. When he opens them to look at Arthur, they are gold. Arthur blinks, and they’re blue again as Merlin removes his fingers from Arthur’s mouth. He climbs off of Arthur and smiles, grabbing the dress and using it to wipe the semen from Arthur’s front.

Arthur laughs and grabs the dress out of Merlin’s hands, balling it up and throwing it off the bed. He reaches for Merlin’s face and pulls him down into a kiss.

Merlin settles in beside him, and they kiss and caress lazily for a while. Arthur basks in the simple feeling of Merlin’s skin against his. He’s falling asleep when Merlin sneaks out of his grasp.

“Where you going?” he asks, too calm to open his eyes.

“Drawing a bath,” Merlin says simply.

“Let me do that,” Arthur says for no real reason.

“Please,” Merlin says. “If you did it, it would be freezing cold and probably full of demon spawn.”

“Fine,” Arthur says. “Do it if you want. I’ll fetch dinner.”

As he’s putting on just enough clothes to be decent enough to walk down to the kitchens, he notices that Merlin is humming softly as he works. He wraps his arms around Merlin’s waist and kisses the nape of his neck before sneaking out of the room.

The mother hens in the kitchen fuss all over Arthur, pressing their hands to his forehead and insisting he has a fever and must see Gaius at once. He tells them he’s been exercising, and could he please just have a tray now?

They argue over who will carry the food upstairs, Arthur insisting that he wants to do it himself and everyone else shaking heads disapprovingly.

“I’m a Knight of Camelot,” he says. “Do you really think I’m incapable of carrying a tray up some stairs?”

He knows it’s a dirty trick, implying that they’re questioning the abilities of Camelot’s Finest, but all he wants is to get upstairs in time to climb into Merlin’s bath and help him wash, and if that’s just a little bit weird, he doesn’t mind.

He snags some flowers out of a vase in the passageway leading to his chambers and lays them across the tray.

As he reaches the door, he finds himself hoping that Merlin will stay for breakfast. And perhaps lunch as well. After all, Merlin has some time off coming up.

**Author's Note:**

> **Rather comment on LiveJournal? Join the conversation[here](http://teprometo.livejournal.com/53832.html#comments).**


End file.
